


Summer Storms

by trascendenza



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-06
Updated: 2007-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:58:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Noah Bennet is prepared for a lot of things when he takes this job.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Storms

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the brave_new_slash fic exchange, for misachan, prompts: waiting out a storm, boredom, easy mission goes very bad.

"She's a harmless waif. Big Company men like us? We can handle her." Claude said, smiling winningly, slipping his taser in the back of his jeans.

"Protocol—"

"Protocol, ha. Those protocols were written by some in-office pansy who gets his jollies yanking your short little chain." Claude plucked Noah's taser out of his hands, leveling a stare at him. "I've been bagging these specials for years, friend. Trust me."

"This isn't standard procedure."

"You'll learn." Claude shoved the taser into the back of Noah's slacks, smoothing the jacket over the bulge, palm brushing just against Noah's pelvis. "Standard procedure is bollocks."

Noah shrugged, folding his hands behind him just above his weapon.

Standing back, he watched Claude ring the doorbell, droplets of water clinging to the ends of Claude's mussed hair and his smile glowing like they really were door to door paper salesmen and wanted nothing more than to bring something good into this woman's life.

*

He's come close to reporting Claude to Thompson, but never gets as far as Thompson's door. Inevitably, he remembers some form he forgot to turn in from the last assignment, the pint of ice cream he needs to pick up for Sandra before he goes home, that beer he promised Claude they would get after they close shop.

He's not really sure what he'd tell Thompson, anyway, other than the fact that he finds it disconcertingly difficult to say "no" to his partner.

*

"Harmless waif?" Noah said dryly, angling his head around the fencepost so he could shoot Claude a look that bore the overflowing sarcasm that wouldn't fit in the two words.

"Relative term," Claude countered, shrugging. "No one expects the bryophyte inquisition."

They watch their target jog away silently, the puddle of collected water spraying outwards from her feet as she disappeared into the gray afternoon.

*

Three months in, and a question intrudes right after a crucial moment botched during their most recent assignment: _is he glad when they escape?_

The next day, they make a clean bag-and-tag, and he discards the notion, with only the slightest lingering aftertaste at the back of his thoughts.

*

"Fantastic." Claude tried to pull their wrists apart, but there was an audible tightening as the vines resisted. "These are worse than those Chinese finger traps. And I always ended up breaking those bloody things in half or having my mum cut them off for me."

"If we'd stuck to the plan—"

"You and your all-mighty plans. No wonder you're Thompson's little golden boy."

"You're right. This was by far the better alternative."

"Just keep your knee out of my arse, would you?" Claude wiggled his hips. "Or move it just a bit to the left and get some butter."

"Lift up your elbow," Noah ordered, lips thinned into a compressed line from what should have been disapproval but felt more like repression.

When they had angled their bound hands within reach, he leaned down and started gnawing, chlorophyll bursting on his tongue and rain dripping into his eyes and obscuring his vision, making the backyard look an impressionist painting done only in tones of green.

*

He pretends not to notice the warm ghost-touches across his shoulders when he's in a room by himself, the way that, sometimes, doors don't close as fast as they should and, other times, as Sandra's telling him about her day, his eyes are focusing at a point just above and behind her head.

Claude, the bastard, is probably spectacularly aware of how much he fails.

*

Noah's tongue was numb by the time they were freed, his previously impeccable black shoes covered in mud and his suit bunching wetly in many uncomfortable folds.

Claude was, of course, still grinning. "Navy would take that one in a heartbeat."

"Don't sound so proud." Noah kicked away the last of the deadened plant material. "Thompson could have our asses for this."

Claude's arm came around Noah's shoulder. By all accounts, their height difference should have made the gesture awkward, but it was casual, almost suave, well-oiled gears sliding into place.

"Boss only knows what we tell him." He patted the side of Noah's face, the sensation of cold skin on cold skin making the gesture feel faraway, like it was happening to someone else. "Might be a detail or two missing from my report." Stepping towards Noah, mud squelched, his thigh pressing between Noah's legs. "Could use your help filling it out, if you catch my drift."

Noah closed his eyes. "You're going to have to be a little more specific."

When he tasted rain sliding into his mouth, it made all too much sense.

*

It's not complicity if he really doesn't know what's going on, if on the surface everything looks like it should: a happy marriage, a successful partnership, a well-paying job, a good employee, a better friend. Individually, he might even be able to make an argument for how all these things are true, how the parts of the whole aren't broken.

But when combined, they contradict and conflict and tear loyalties, make him wish that he could be as comfortable with the indefinable spaces between people as he is with questions of applied morality.

*

Claude shook out his hair, splattered drops all through the car. "You sure you don't want to pull over, dry off a little? Your face is a right mess."

Noah kept his eyes on the road, window wipers batting back and forth furiously on the glass, creating tiny semi-circles of clarity between the downpours.

"Going to be like that, is it?" Claude reached into the backseat for his shirt and wrung it out before putting it back on. "You straight lot really are no fun."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Claude's chuckle was laced with a bitter after-flavor. "Trying the old plausible deniability trick on me now, are we? Would've thought you'd be a little more creative than that."

"Don't push it, Rains." His knuckles went white around the steering wheel. "You have your secrets, I have mine." When they hit a light, he turned to Claude, voice gone too quiet, each word deliberately paused. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Don't worry, friend." Claude said, looking out the window. "You can trust me." The lights from outside the car stained Claude's face inky flashes of red, green, and white, shadows of collected water dappling over his withdrawn expression and hiding what Noah didn't want to see.

*

Noah Bennet is prepared for a lot of things when he takes this job: compromises of personal principle, yielding to a greater good in ways that few would understand and far more would condemn, lying at every turn to keep those he loves safe.

What he isn't prepared for is a partnership that is none of these things, and forces him to question why any of them are necessary at all. Makes him wonder what it would be like to put his trust into something like that, if even just for the duration of a unexpected storm in the middle of August.


End file.
